


Such Sweet Sorrow

by Jiksa



Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Drunk Sex, Heartbreak, Jealousy, M/M, Romeo and Juliet References, Star-cross'd Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-07 04:28:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12225762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jiksa/pseuds/Jiksa
Summary: Nick's getting married, Harry tries to tell himself he's not bothered.(Spoiler alert: he's bothered.)





	Such Sweet Sorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Featuring terrible references to multiple Romeo and Juliet canons, including [_Romeo and Juliet _by William Shakespeare__](http://shakespeare.mit.edu/romeo_juliet/full.html) _ _,[“Romeo and Juliet” by Dire Straits](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iJmER493F4U) and [“Love Story” by Taylor Swift.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8xg3vE8Ie_E)__
> 
> Written for the [Grimmy Appreciation Fest](grimmyappreciation.tumblr.com), for the prompt: "Nick's getting married. Harry tries to tell himself he's not bothered." Thanks to all the lovelies who read this while I was writing, and to [Writcraft](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/pseuds/Writcraft) for running an amazing fest! 
> 
> Wondering who Elgar Johnson is, btw? Here's a [primer](http://jiksax.tumblr.com/post/163768622989/nick-grimshawelgar-johnson-introducing-the-ss), should you need one.

“But soft! What light through yonder window breaks—”

“Styles, is that—? Are you fucking mental? Get off the street!”

“—It is the East and Juliet is the sun—”

“It’s three am, Harold! Were you throwing actual fucking rocks at my window?”

“—Arise, fair sun! And kill the envious moon—”

“For fuck’s sake, I’m coming downstairs. Put a sock in it!”

The lights turn on one by one in Nick’s house as he makes his way downstairs. Harry leans back against Nick’s front gate, waiting. His heart’s hammering against his ribs, reckless and wild and _wanting_.

If this was a Dire Straits song, he’d find a convenient street light, step out of the shade, say something like “You and me, babe, how about it?” If this was a Taylor Swift song, he’d kneel to the ground, pull out a ring and say, “Marry me, Juliet, you’ll never have to be alone.” If this was a play, he’d ask Nick for “th’ exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine.”

And then they’d fuck it all up and Harry would drink poison and Nick would stab himself in the stomach — but that would all come later.

There simply isn’t any version of this story that doesn’t end in flames. They’re _star-cross’d_ , the two of them, and yet Harry can’t ever bring himself to stay away. He’s always been a fucking coward when it comes to this, desperate and reckless and greedy and irresponsible, giving himself up in Nick’s bed and then running away before Nick can ever properly hold on to him.

It’s not a movie or a song or a play. It’s just Harry showing up to Nick’s front yard on the wrong side of midnight after too many drinks, begging for something he never knows what to do with.

Nick’s in pajamas when he lets him in, grabbing him by the elbow and yanking him off the street, muttering sullenly about propriety and teenagers and bad manners and old age and beauty sleep. “Honestly,” Nick’s saying as he does the locks back up on his front door and fits the latch. “You film one movie and suddenly it's soliloquies in the street. Bloody thespians.”

Nick’s sleep-mussed and groggy and lovely, his hair floppy and soft and falling into his eyes. He’s wearing glasses, the tortoise shell ones that make him look clever and serious and mature. Harry’s stomach swoops unpleasantly, twisting with something like terror, something like desire, something like— “Caught it on Netflix earlier.”

Nick holds Harry’s gaze for a long moment. Harry knows what he looks like, drunk and smudged and bruised at the edges. It’s not the first time he’s shown up like this, they both know what this is. “Lusting after Leo again, are we?”

“Something like that.”

“Mm,” Nick says, his eyes shifting to where Harry’s hands are carefully not reaching for him. “Give us your coat, then.”

Harry shrugs out of it and tosses it into Nick’s waiting hands, already backing into Nick’s hallway. Before he risks shedding any more clothes, he asks, “He’s not here, is he?”

Nick sighs, rubbing sleep out of his eyes with one hand as he follows him. “No, he’s staying at his own flat tonight.”

Harry’s fingers still at the bottom of his jumper, hesitating. “Does that mean I can sleep in your bed tonight?”

“You’re a fucking menace, you know that?”

“Nonsense, I’m the platonic love of your life,” Harry quips, like it’s ever been that easy between them. It's as inadequate of a descriptor of their _thing_ as anything else: best mate, fuckbuddy, soul...friend. He follows Nick’s eyes as he pulls the jumper over his head, walking backwards towards Nick’s bedroom with practiced steps. He’s got undressing in Nick’s flat down to an exact science, no matter how long it’s been since the last time. “You gonna show me a good time?”

Nick lets out another slow, long-suffering sigh, following him. “At three in the morning when you’re two sheets to the wind? I’m thinking I might give you a bottle of coconut water and some painkillers and show myself back to bed.”

Harry drops his T-shirt carelessly to the side as he makes it up the stairs. “Or you could fuck me.”

Nick bites his lip, letting out a tortured groan as he follows Harry slowly up the staircase, picking up Harry’s discarded clothes along the way. Harry watches his eyes sweep over Harry’s torso, his tongue darting out to wet his lips when Harry undoes his belt. “Absolute fucking menace.”

“Absolute fucking menace that’s about to get fucked?” Harry asks needlessly. They both know the question’s a mere formality, dirty talk. Nick doesn’t ever say no to him. “Want it hard. Through the mattress. Like you...”

Nick arches an eyebrow when Harry leaves it there, when Harry’s heel catches on a step and he has to reach out to steady himself on the railing. “Like I what?”

 _Like you mean it_ ’s on the tip of Harry’s tongue, but even in the haze of inebriation he knows better than to ask for that. Nick always fucks him like he means it, that’s part of the problem.

“Like you’re not an eighty-year-old man who sleeps with socks on.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Nick objects, closing the distance between them with two quick strides. He pulls Harry flush against himself, warm and solid and familiar, more intoxicating than anything Harry could ever drink. “It was cold earlier.”

“Old man,” Harry says helplessly, wrapping his arms around Nick’s neck and opening his mouth for the kisses he knows are coming. Nick’s breath smells sleep-stale and musky against his mouth, one corner of his lips raised in a small smile as he undoes the button fly of Harry’s trousers. “C’mon, please.”

“Quiet,” Nick admonishes, tackling Harry back against the wall and shutting him up properly. Harry sighs into the kiss, going pliant and soft and wanton against Nick’s body. He’s always been so easy for Nick’s kisses, so fucking easy for Nick’s hand down his pants, so easy for anything Nick’s ever given him.

Nick would give him anything, everything. Harry wouldn’t know what to do with any of it, and so instead Nick gives him this. 

“Please,” Harry begs, throwing his head back when Nick’s fist closes around him. “Fuck, you make me so hard.”

Nick follows him, biting a kiss into Harry’s jaw. “Such sweet nothings, Romeo.”

Harry swallows, a heat that isn’t just arousal burning in his cheeks. He cups Nick’s jaw, leaning hard against him when Nick’s thumb slides over his slit and sends a shudder through him. There’s so much he can’t bring himself to say. “Nicholas.”

Nick pulls back a little, his eyes dark and unreadable when they meet Harry’s. “Harold.”

“Nicholas,” Harry tries again, desperate. He doesn’t know how to say any of it. “Get on your knees for me.”

It’s not what he meant to say. It’s never what he means to say.

For one long, impossible moment, the terrifying thought that Nick might say no to him crosses his mind. “To the bedroom with you,” Nick says instead, letting go of Harry’s cock to cup his face with both hands. “These knees are too old for hardwood floors in the middle of the night.”

Harry swallows thickly, bringing his own hands up to cover Nick’s against his cheeks. He wraps his fingers around Nick's bony wrists. “Tell me I can stay the night.”

Nick never says no to him, even if Harry’s never been brave enough to say yes.

“Go on, Romeo,” Nick says, brushing his thumb over Harry’s parted lips. “Bedroom. I’ve got the heater on.”

 

—

 

It’s comfortably quiet afterward, once they’ve caught their breaths and wiped themselves down and snuggled up under the duvet. Harry’s head rests heavily on Nick’s shoulder, his fingers idly tracing patterns in Nick’s damp chest hair, his bent knees tucked underneath Nick’s naked thighs. He closes his eyes and listens to Nick's heartbeat,

It’s always been an easy fit like this, the two of them, no matter how long it’s been between each time Harry’s stumbled in and out of Nick’s life over the years. Too easy, and way too fucking hard.

If this was a Taylor Swift song, Harry would say, “I love you and that’s all I really know.” If it was a Dire Straits song, he’d say, “I love you like the stars above, I’ll love you ‘til I die.” If he was still standing at the bottom of Nick’s balcony in a play, he’d be brave enough to say, “It is my lady, O, it is my love. Oh, that she knew she were.”

But this isn’t a movie or a song or a play, it’s just Harry naked and drunk and fucked up in Nick’s bed, on borrowed time before Harry fucks off again and Nick lets him go. It's been almost six years of this, they both know how this goes. Neither of them has ever done _boyfriends_ , because Nick’s never been able to hold on to one and Harry’s never had the balls to try. So Nick’s fucked guys and Harry’s fucked girls, and the two of them have crashed into each other time and time again, in between.

And then _Elgar_ happened when Harry wasn’t looking, somehow went from _that guy Nick sometimes hung out with_ to _that guy Nick brought to Miquita's birthday dinner_ to _that guy who keeps a pair of slippers in Nick's foyer_. Then Lou had let something slip when she’d cut Harry’s hair this afternoon and Harry’s stomach hasn’t stopped hurting since. “Are you really going to marry him?”

If it wasn’t for the way his fingers freeze in Harry’s curls, Harry might’ve thought Nick hadn’t heard him. Nick takes a while to answer, clearing his throat before saying, so carefully, “Is this your way of saying you’re bothered?”

“I’m not bothered.”

Nick brings his hand down to cup Harry’s jaw, turning his head until their eyes meet. “Showing up drunk in the middle of the night to recite Shakespeare outside my window? Forgive me if it all comes across a little bit ‘bothered.’”

Harry fights the urge to look away. He’s never known how to be brave when it comes to Nick. “Are you going to marry him? Really?”

“I said I’d think about it,” Nick says, looking between Harry’s eyes like he’s trying to work something out. He licks his lips, that nervous tick he’s always had when he’s trying to keep a straight face. “So I’m thinking about it.”

“Fuck, Nick. You barely know him.”

“I’ve known him for years.” Nick’s brow furrows, just a little. “You can tell me if you’re bothered.”

“Fuck off, I’m not fucking bothered.”

Nick brushes Harry’s fringe out of his eyes, his fingers gentle and his eyes even more so. “I’m getting old, you know. It’d be nice to have a _person_ like that, someone to come home to at the end of the day.”

“That’s not a good enough reason to marry someone.”

“No,” Nick concedes. “But I think I might love him, like properly actually love him, and he wants to make an honest woman out of me. That’s more than I’ve ever been offered from anyone else.”

Harry pulls back, twisting away from Nick’s grip and sitting up to get some space. “Fuck, _Nick_.”

“I’m not— I didn’t mean it like that.” The bed sheets rustle as Nick follows him, coming close to Harry’s turned back but not touching him. “I just mean… you know, I don’t want to die alone, eaten by my dogs.”

“That's cats,” Harry says, drawing his knees against his chest and resting his chin on one knee. He can feel the hangover looming at the edges of his mind. It’s going to be a bad one; he already feels sore all over. “Dogs would bark until your neighbours called the police.”

Nick sighs, pressing his forehead between Harry’s shoulder blades. “I’ve got a good thing with him, yeah? I think it could work.”

Harry squeezes his eyes shut, hating all of it. It’s burning in his gut, how much he _wants_ and how scared he is to ask for it. “Is he gonna make you stop seeing me?”

“Probably. Eventually. Would you mind?”

“Fuck off, would I mind.”

Nick reaches around Harry’s bent legs and hooks his bony chin over Harry’s shoulder, coming so impossibly close. “You know, there’s a moment in the wedding where they ask people to speak now or forever hold their peace. Your ex has a whole song about it.”

“I don’t know that I’m the type of girl to be rudely barging in on a white veil occasion.”

“Then you’ve got a head start,” Nick says softly. His stubble is rough against Harry’s cheek, his limp dick warm against Harry’s arse, his grip firm around Harry’s calves. “We haven't even set a date yet.”

“Fuck, Nick.”

“You’d have to mean it. You’d have to fucking mean it, or we couldn’t be friends anymore.”

That much has always been crystal clear. Neither of them knows the first thing about how to do serious, or committed, or monogamous — but Harry doesn’t think either of them would’ve settled for less when it comes to this. Then things would inevitably get real and public and brutal; Nick would get overwhelmed and Harry would get terrified, Nick would get hurt and Harry would get gone. He’s always been a fucking coward when it comes to what he actually wants. Not trying is shit, but trying and failing would’ve absolutely fucking ruined them.

“Hey,” Nick says after a few long moments of radio silence and Harry trying not to cry. “Look at me.”

Harry twists in Nick’s arms. “Don’t.”

“Come on, please.”

Nick doesn’t let go, though, and Harry turns reluctantly to face him. Nick’s eyes are dark, open, devastating. Open palms where Harry’s are a closed fist. He licks his lips a little, parts them like he’s hesitating. “I can’t wait forever, you know.”

Harry can’t fucking bear it. Drinking poison or stabbing yourself in the stomach couldn’t possibly be worse than all this aching, desperate, endless, impossible _wanting_ , could it? “Juliet.”

Nick's eyes go heartbreakingly soft. “Haz.”

Harry’s breath is loud, even to his own ears. He can’t fucking bear it. He can’t. He leans in to kiss that look off of Nick’s face, to hide himself against Nick’s body. “Let me fuck you,” he begs, and it’s not what he meant to say. It’s never what he means to say. “Let me, god, please, I want you, please let me.”

Harry gets a reckless hand between Nick’s legs. Nick’s cock jumps against his palm, but he pulls back from Harry’s biting kiss to look at him again. “Harold,” he says, and then softer, touching Harry’s jaw with careful fingers, “We need to talk.”

“Not now.” It’s cowardly, but Harry can’t even bear to look at him. He reaches into the nightstand instead, where Nick keeps lube and condoms next to a tube of lip balm and a little spray bottle of lens cleaner for his glasses. There’s a phone charger in there that doesn’t belong, Samsung-branded even though Nick refuses to use anything but Apple products. He doesn’t want to think about anyone else charging their phone in Nick’s bedroom, least of all someone that Nick might love. “Enough talking for now.”

Nick sighs heavily. “Harry,” he says, sounding tired and long-suffering, about as sore as Harry feels, like he might finally turn Harry down this time. “I. Harry, come on.”

Harry’s head is full of words and music and people stabbing themselves in the stomach, and he just can’t talk, not right now, not when everything hurts this much, not when all he wants is for Nick to cut him up into little stars and spread him all over the night sky, not when he's terrified that he’ll accidentally say _goodbye_ instead of anything he actually wants to say. “Please, Nick.”

Nick sighs again, sounding unmistakably defeated. “How do you want me?”

 _For good_ , Harry wants to say. _Forever. For keeps._

“On all fours.”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr post](https://grimmyappreciation.tumblr.com/post/166250772613/such-sweet-sorrow-nick-grimshawharry-styles)
> 
> Title from [Shakespeare's _Romeo and Juliet_](http://shakespeare.mit.edu/romeo_juliet/full.html) : "Parting is such sweet sorrow / that I shall say good night till it be morrow."


End file.
